


When You Were Young

by stargazingbros



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Blasphemy, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Sam Winchester on Demon Blood, Suicidal Thoughts, the sam/ruby moment is in two lines tops, well he is fucking an angel so that's that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-28
Updated: 2018-02-28
Packaged: 2019-03-25 04:50:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13826832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stargazingbros/pseuds/stargazingbros
Summary: Sam has always been a praying man. One day, he finally meets the saviour he has always prayed for, except he did not expect to fall for him. Set from S4 and beyond. Inspired by the song "When You Were Young" by The Killers.





	When You Were Young

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for Sastiel Creations Challenge Round 1 on Tumblr (@sastielcreationschallenge) with the theme "first time" and the prompt "first time meeting". Beta by @AnOddSock. Thanks Bex!

Sam had always been the praying type.

While his father and brother relied on commandments set in scattered bullet shells, steady lines of salt, and “shoot first, ask later”, Sam was willing to drop to his knees to pray for a bigger subtler power.

When Sam was younger, he prayed because that was all he could do. It was all he was allowed to do as he watched the Impala leave him behind over and over again. At first, he was too young to understand—only knowing that his father’s absence for these random sporadic jobs would be timestamped by fresh sets of bruises and scars. His father’s battered body was the living proof of his absences in Sam’s life, the evidence of his helplessness. So, Sam prayed for a gentler universe than they were given. Young Sammy would trail Pastor Jim around the church, hung onto every word of his sermons and prayed under a doe-eyed Jesus hung on a wooden crucifix. Sam would whisper his prayers against the rough pillows of motel rooms, hoping for more compassionate beings than the ones his father hunted down. He prayed for someone to comfort him during his sleepless lonely nights, a role that would surely be taken by a mother if only Sam had one. So he prayed for a benevolent saviour.

“Please don’t let my Dad get hurt anymore.”

“Please don’t take my family away from me.”

“Please keep us safe.”

However, his prayers changed once he started picking up the weapons himself, when he was trained to become a weapon. Sam could no longer hope for a softer world when it was him brandishing a gun, shooting bullet holes into the monster of the week. He lost his baby fat and replaced them with lean muscles. He learned to pray for more brutal fights but quicker deaths so jobs would end faster and they all could trudge back to whichever place they called home that week. Safety was only assured with violence, Sam quickly learned, affirmed by salt and fire. Sam couldn’t risk any of them to be soft if it meant exposing themselves and, more importantly, others to harm. There were so many horrors, so many victims, that Sam didn’t have time to feel victimised himself. So, Sam prayed differently—to a protector that was more ruthless but also, just. A warrior, like himself.

“Please let those salt lines hold, just a little longer.”

“Please don’t make me miss this fucking shot.”

“Please let me kill that son of a bitch. I will kill that yellow-eyed fucker if that’s the last thing I do.”

Sam remained a praying man.

He reached out to the powers that be even when rejection was the resounding reply throughout his entire life. He needed to believe someone was watching him, that he wasn’t only doing the saving, that he could be saved, too. When his father learned of his habit, John only said, “You remind me of her, son” and nothing more. When Dean found out, he mocked Sam’s beliefs, too hardened by destruction to believe in anything as whimsical as heaven and angels. But Sam never stopped praying, not even when Dean went to Hell.

“Please!” he cried to no one, knowing that Hell was out of reach, even for himself who was tainted since birth. How ironic to be so demon-like but stranded on Earth alone.

“Please,” he mumbled as he choked on demon blood, succumbing to the darkness within him. He mutilated himself into a blunt weapon because being anything less made him feel helpless. Safety no longer meant anything to him.

“Please,” he groaned as he fucked the demon bitch on every flat surface in the dark, begging for the void to swallow him whole with every thrust.

And then, just when Hell’s gates cracked open for him, for the destined boy king, his prayers were answered.

From the bottomless depths teeming with fire and blood, rose Sammy’s prayer—the benevolent saviour, the fearless warrior—grasping his brother’s arm to Earth’s surface.

An angel of the Lord.

Sam fell in love with Castiel immediately.

The first time they met was in a cheap motel room, of all places in the world. The room stank of mildew, faded wallpaper graced the walls while a discount promotion for porn perched on the television. In many ways, the place was not noteworthy. Yet, Sam who was still knee-deep in demon blood, doubt and regret could accept beauty from anywhere, let alone from an angel waiting patiently on his bed.

The many hours Sam had spent staring up to the stained glass in Pastor Jim’s church had not prepared him for the real thing.

“Hello, Sam,” said Castiel simply, as though he wasn’t the sole thing that Sam had prayed to coming to life.

The sermons had never mentioned that angels could have such piercing blue eyes, that years from now Sam would still find himself naked under their gaze. Nobody had told Sam that angels could emanate such humanly warmth, whether it’s from their first handshake or a desperate session of lovemaking before the end of the world. Cas was nothing like the other men in Sam’s life, who were scarred and patched up in many ways more than one. In bed, Sam would trace his hands against Cas and marvelled how his body never hinted of any wear and tear at all. Cas would shrug in his stoic manner, saying that his human vessel had been adequate use for him. But as Sam made his way down to Cas’s treasure trail with his needy mouth, every quiver in the angel’s body reminded them both that it was all, entirely, Cas.

Finally, Sam was not prepared to fall in love with the way Cas would say his name, his gruff voice making it sound important yet sweet—not just the boy with demon blood, not just Lucifer’s vessel but Sam. Somebody worth saving. More importantly, somebody worthy of forgiveness.

However, Cas talked like a gentleman just as Sam imagined when he was young, when all he could do was pray for someone like him to take him away.

“Please, Sam,” said Cas quietly by Sam’s bedside, when he was rendered human by Metatron, needing the comfort of another human. Sam flung the covers open, let the man into his bed, himself filled with the same longing need.

“Sam! Please!” begged Cas for release, as Sam’s hips slammed into him faster and harder, chasing their climax.

“Please?” whispered Cas, looking at his lover through hooded eyes. Sam gleefully answered by leaning in for the requested kiss, ignoring the people around them and pretending to be just another couple making out under the moonlight.

Sometimes, when they are entangled in bed, hair mussed up with their limbs crisscrossing each other, the labels fell apart. Angel of the Lord. Boy with demon blood. It didn’t seem to matter when they held each other under the sheets. However, Sam still had moments of awe, realising that his lover was a million years old celestial being.

“Hey Cas, do angels actually listen to people’s prayers? There are so many of us.”

Cas just smiled and pulled Sam closer to him. “We do have our favourites.”


End file.
